


A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by TheDumbestAvenger



Series: Whumptober 2020 [16]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Gun Violence, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Whumptober 2020, no comfort, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDumbestAvenger/pseuds/TheDumbestAvenger
Summary: After receiving a bloodstained note, Peter throws himself into searching for the hostages, only he didn’t expect one to Ben’s murderer
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Whumptober 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946023
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Day 16! 
> 
> We've reached the just-over-half-way mark and are celebrating with... a really sad one! 
> 
> *Warnings*  
> Gun Violence | Major Character Death

Peter ran through the desolate hallways of an old, abandoned police precinct. One that, ironically, closed down thanks to Spider-Man's effect on crime in the city. He searched every inch of every floor, not knowing what he was looking for, only that this was the location written on that bloodstained note addressed to him.

Setting eyes on that note for the first time sent a chilling shiver down Peter's spine. One he surely would never feel the likes of again. It was simply taped to a lamppost along Peter's usual patrol route, the words ' _ Come find me, Spider-Man _ ' written in cursive above the address. Splats of crimson marred the perfectness of the uncrinkled paper.

The precinct was a five-storey building where every surface held a think layer of dust. The ground floor housed the Homicides bullpen, looking back, that should have been the first clue. All the files had been transferred to other precincts, of course, but barren desks with long-forgotten computers still stood sentry over the uninhabited floor. 

The first floor once belonged to the Cyber Crimes Unit, again stripped bare of everything but the basic furniture. The second floor housed a sign on the door reading Drug Enforcement Administration, the inside as dismal as the rest. Dark - the lightbulbs long since burned out - not a single sign of life bar the scuttle of rats feet as Peter raced across the floor, throwing open every door, checking under every desk. Wondering what he'd come face to face with.

What if it was already too late? If whoever the maniac who left the note had grown tired of the game and left, leaving Peter on a wild goose chase, or killed an innocent civilian out of boredom. Having another lost soul on his conscious would be enough to break Peter, who already carried the weight of the world on his young shoulders.

The third floor brought up sickening memories; he'd been too fixated on the mission to even notice. Even in it's forgotten state - moth-eaten coats, grime coated desks, and dusky smell - Peter recognised every inch of the room. The same room he'd once sat in, numb to the world around him as he waited for May and Ben to come and collect him. Because no one else was going too. The same room he'd sat in only a few years ago, this time with blood on his hands and the first innocent soul on his chest. Only May would collect him, this time. Her face wistful and yearning for a love she'd never feel again, tearstains on her cheeks.

Peter pushed past the memories. Past the surge of grief building in his chest. Past the pain. And kept searching. 

The fourth - and final - floor had even longer been abandoned, deserted the same day SHIELD fell. Call it coincidence if you want, Peter didn't believe in such things. Not anymore. Not after everything he'd seen. Walking through the door felt surreal, like stepping into an entirely different world devoid of colours and warmth and comfort. Just a harsh, cold, emptiness that sucked the breath from Peter's chest.

Every piece of furniture -chairs, desks, computers - had been stripped away to leave behind a vast swathe of nothingness. Sun-faded patches on the wall plaster stood in stark contrast to those which had been covered by paintings and posters. A ceiling fan swung painfully slowly in the middle of the room, creaking as its defective blades danced through the air to a tune only they could hear. Peter's eyes fell to the floor next, where a thick layer of dirt, dust, and grime covered from wall to wall. Cutting through it... Footprints.

Peter's heart hammered as he followed them, tracking his own through the mess as he did so. There was more than one pair, that was for sure, maybe three or four, it was hard to tell from the muddle of prints. Only one set seemed to be wearing any shoes.

They led to a door. Blue paint flaked off of it, and a large, square window stood at head height, though it was too dark inside to see through. Steeling his nerve, lips pressed into a thin line and determination in his eyes, Peter opened the door and stepped through. 

He threw his arms up, ready to fight the madman within... But his Spidey-Sense gave nothing more than the general feeling of unease he'd got first stepping into the building. A dim light flicked on overhead, just bright enough to light the room. Peter was in one of those police lineup rooms with a white wall painted solely with height lines. In front of it, four people stood in identical brown, baggy khakis and plain black T-shirts, a cloth sack clumsily thrown over their heads and hands cuffed behind their backs.

"Hello, Spider-Man."

The voice came over an intercom. Peter whirled around to face a mirror, presumably one-way glass.

"I'm glad you made it. Though, I must say I've been waiting a while. I don't like waiting."

"What do you want?" Peter spat at the mirror, hoping he was looking at least vaguely close to the person behind it.

"To play a little game." They paused just long enough for Peter to open his mouth before continuing. "Take a look to your left."

Peter turned, looking at the door once again. Just beside it, on a small, square table, sat a gun. The sight of it caused Peter to step back. "No," he said, turning to face the mirror once again.

"Yes," they replied, their voice eerily lacking in emotion. "The rules are simple. You're going to kill one of these people."

"Why would I do that?" Peter asked, his voice a little too loud to play off as if he were calm. Who was he kidding, calm so far out of the window he didn't know what it meant anymore. His heart hammered so loud it was a miracle the person behind the mirror couldn't hear, every muscle like a tightly coiling spring, ready to act a seconds notice.

"Have you ever heard of a dead man's switch, Spider-Man? Handy little contraptions. I've got one in my hand right now, if I let go of this button... you can say goodbye to your nice Aunt May. I've packed enough explosives in the basement of your apartment to take out the whole block."

Peter began pacing the room, raking a hand through his hair as he decidedly kept his gaze away from the gun. Vaguely, he could hear one of the hostages sniffling under the cloth bag. He rounded back on the mirror, eyes burning with rage. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Well," they left a short pause before continuing, "I could let go so you can see for yourself..."

"No!" Peter said quickly, his voice an octave too high. "No, don't do that!"

"Then I think you already have your answer."

Slowly, Peter walked to the table with the gun and reached out a hand. He picked it up, the black metal cold against his trembling hands. His eyes flicked over to the hostages, standing silently in a line, waiting for Peter to make his choice. He threw the gun down and stumbled away. "I can't," he rasped, voice gravelly. "I- I can't do this."

"Time's ticking, Spider-Man. I can tell you about them if you want. Make the choice easier." Peter shook his head fiercely, knowing who they are would only make the decision  _ harder _ . But the person behind the glass ignored him. "One of them is a charity worker, spends every moment of his time helping others. One's a criminal, a murderer to be specific. Another has a wife and kid back home, the last has no one. A loner who lives a peaceful life."

"Shut up!" Peter yelled, pressing his hands over his ears. "Just stop it."

Despite his best efforts, the crackle of the intercom still found its way to Peter's ears. "Here's the real kicker. The criminal, the man he murdered went by the name of Ben Parker."

Peter shot dead upright, hands falling limply to his sides as vengence clawed its way up his spine. He'd failed to save Ben once before, but now he had a chance to make that right. To save other lives in his name. Without realising he'd moved, the gun now once again rested in Peter's hands. This time, he seized it with fearsome strength, not a tremble in sight.

Pure rage burned in his eyes as his finger curled around the trigger, examining each of the hostages. He'd been there the night Ben died, saw the murderer escaping, surely he could pick them out of this lineup.

"Tick tock, Spider-Man. Time to make the decision."

Peter levelled the gun at the second hostage from the left. In years to come, Peter would look back on this night and wonder why him, what made him choose this person out of the lineup. He squeezed shut his eyes, the sudden realisation of just how  _ wrong  _ this whole thing was washing over him. 

But it was too late, he'd already pulled the trigger.

The sound echoed throughout the small room. A pit opened up inside Peter's stomach and he fell to his knees, doubling over. All he felt was regret. The remaining hostages screamed, or cried, or both, Peter couldn't be sure through the numbness. The trembling returned tenfold.

"Take a look, Spider-Man," the person behind the glass sounded happy, no... Elated. "See if you made the right choice."

Peter shuffled across the floor towards the growing pool of blood under the chest of the fallen hostage. Shakily, he reached out and tugged back the cloth hood. A sob escaped his throat when he saw the person underneath. Hurriedly, he pulled them into his lap, blood staining his suit, and tried to stem the steady flow leaking from his chest.

"No," he whispered, barely able to make a sound. "No, Mister Stark! Please!"

Tony's eyes stared lifelessly up at the ceiling, his face contorted in pain.

"I'm s-sorry," Peter stuttered, "I'm so sorry, Mister Stark. Please, c-come back. Don't leave me!" He tried his best to wake Tony, but he never would wake again.

In years to come, Peter would look back on this night and wonder why him. And he knew why. It was the familiarity. The vague sense that he knew the man under the hood, and picked him assuming it to be Ben’s killer.

Who was the killer now?

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah... I'm sorry about that.
> 
> Kudos and comments are absolutely loved, and my tumblr is thedumbestavenger is you wanted to come scream at me :D


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